


Run For The Fences

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:11:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4602813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think you underestimate the lengths I will go to for you, Clarke.”</p><p>And she wonders how they got to where they are, from strangers, to friends, and something beyond that.</p><p>“We’re still discussing a completely hypothetical situation where I murder someone, right?” She says, biting down on her lip so he wouldn’t see her smile.</p><p>Or; the one where Bellamy and Clarke take a trip, and things don't go <i>exactly</i> as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run For The Fences

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this when I was on the road in Perth, and it just feels like 7k worth of dreamy rambling about being on the road. I apologize in advance.

**HOUR (8)**

She wakes up, throat raw and breath sour, cheek pressed against the cool window pane.

Everything looks a lot uglier in winter- bare boned trees and dead grass, the snow on the sidewalks a murky yellow- she exhales, watches as her breath fogs up the glass.

The car smells like coffee and exhaust, sweat and rust. She shifts, wincing as her neck pulls uncomfortably. The clock on the dashboard says it’s three in the morning, the stark red letters burning her eyelids. Clarke closes her eyes again, takes another deep breath.

“Up yet, sleeping beauty?”

His voice is hoarse, scratchy from hours of disuse and she has to suppress the shiver that trickles down her spine.

“Pull over,” She tells him, and he does just that, his fingers tapping out a rhythm against the steering wheel as he pulls into a gas station.

“You look like shit,” Clarke says bluntly, and he smirks at her, cricking his neck as they both exit the vehicle. His eyes are bloodshot, hair dishevelled, and the scent of coffee clings onto his fingertips, his rumpled clothes.

“Not looking so hot yourself, princess.” He snarks, sliding into the passenger seat as she unfolds the map. There’s a half eaten packet of red vines abandoned by the gear shift and she pops one into her mouth before adjusting her seat.

“Ready to go?”

His eyes are already closed, his long legs folded awkwardly into the small space, glasses sliding off his nose as he tucks his elbows to his sides. It was impossible to not look at him, to not let her gaze linger on his fingers peeking through the holes in his gloves, the hard set of his jaw, the spray of freckles across his nose.

There was something about Bellamy that made you want to stare. It wasn’t that he was particularly beautiful or handsome to look at, it was the sureness of his movements, the way he carried himself even in the smallest of actions. Bellamy could stand in a room full of half-naked models, fully-clothed, and everyone would choose to look at him.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” He mutters, and she revs the engine.

**HOUR (0)**

He appears on her doorstep, unannounced, rainwater trickling through his hair and puddles forming on her kitchen floor.

“She’s gone,” He snarls, and she lets him in, lets him scoot over to his favourite arm chair and sink into it with practiced ease, his elbows resting on his knees as he runs a hand over his face.

“Roma?”

He looks up, surprised, “Octavia. Roma is,” He makes a dismissive motion with his hands, brow furrowed, “We’re not together anymore.” He says finally.

“Oh,” She says stupidly, crossing her arms over her chest. She wish she had the foresight to put a bra on, or at least comb out her hair. Her paint splattered shorts sit high against her thighs, and her sweatshirt is sloping off her shoulder. Clarke resists the urge to fidget and pull at her clothes.

“Where do you think she went?”

“The lake house,” He says without preamble. She arches her brow, cocks her head to the side so he’ll elaborate. Bellamy sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, a sure sign that he’s nervous.

“They’re tearing it down,” He says, and her breath catches in her throat.

“All of the houses?” She asks.

“They’re building a bunch of condos instead,” He says bitterly, his lips twisting to a sneer, “It’s going to be a tourist trap.”

Clarke swears under her breath, sinks into the squashy chair next to him. She had spent almost every summer at the lake house, ever since her father bought the house when she turned eight. Her first summer there was spent tanning, zinc painted in haphazard stripes over her nose, sand caught in between her fingernails.

She meets Bellamy Blake on the second week of that very summer, the boy next door.

“She’s probably going to do something outrageous, like chain herself to the front door.” He mutters, burying his head in his hands, “And get _arrested._ ”

“Octavia won’t do something that idiotic,” Clarke says, her voice false even to her own ears. He rolls his eyes, groans.

“I’m going to go get her,” He says, soft, and she feels his fingers brush against hers, his skin searing hot against hers.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Bellamy nearly vaults himself off the chair at that, and she recognizes the signs: the clenched jaw, the hard set of his eyebrows- ready to argue, to persuade, yet another one of his impassioned speeches- but then his fingers twist into the fabric of his thick jacket, knuckles white, and he wilts, slumping back down into the chair.

“I was hoping you would want to help.” He says finally, “Octavia will listen to you, I know she will.”

She’s been avoiding him for about two months. Two whole months of dodging his calls, of curt, one word replies, of looking away when his eyes landed on her.

“Give me twenty minutes to pack,” She says instead, and his answering smile is so bright she has to look away.

**HOUR (2)**

Bellamy takes the wrong turn, and they end up on a deserted stretch of road.

Clarke has to unveil the ancient map from the glove compartment, edges torn away by bugs and age. She shakes the dust out of the crevices, swears when it gets all over her jeans.

“Take a left at the next intersection,” She tells him tersely.

“Point me, Magellan.” He says, soft, hesitant. Apprehensive.

She closes her eyes, extends an olive branch, “Magellan wants donuts at the next drive-through we see.”

“Roger that.” He says, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

It’s nice.

**HOUR (5)**

He has a packet of pop rocks stowed in the glove compartment.

She can’t help it, she pulls it out and shakes it right by his ear. He flinches at the noise, shoots her a dirty look as they pull up at the red light.

“You’re a twenty five and you still eat pop rocks.” Clarke mutters, diving back into her search for his swiss knife. Her fingers slip through coiled wires, bumps against a bottle of deodorant and a tube of loosely capped toothpaste, before she finds the knife. It’s rusty, squeaks on its hinges as she cuts through the packaging of their six pack diet coke.

“You used to like them too,” He says, turning to look at her, edges of his lips curling upwards, jagged with a sliver of teeth, familiar and disarming. (He was ten and she was eight, and when he smiled, crooked and small, she had reached up and pinned the other side of his mouth with her chubby fingers)

“You remember?” She blurts, flushing at his incredulous expression, before ducking her head back down and pretending to be busy with extricating a can.

“Course I remember,” He says, wiggling his eyebrows, grinning, and she swats at him, more out of embarrassment that anything else. Bellamy yelps, shooting her a wounded look as she sticks her tongue out at him.

He laughs, switching on the blinker as she takes a sip of her coke, “Oh come on, you don’t have to be all embarrassed about it. It was nice.”

Her cheeks are burning at this point, and she lays her fingers over them, fingernails sinking into heated flesh, “I _accosted_ you,” She admits.

“ _I_ was the one who asked to kiss you!”

“Yeah, but I led up to it,” She mutters, shoving him with her elbow as he chuckles, “Don’t laugh at me! Look, I was fifteen. I really wanted to kiss someone.”

“You were really into it,” He says pleasantly, struggling to keep his face composed, and she groans, turning her face away so he wouldn’t see her grin.

The first and only time she had kissed Bellamy Blake, she tasted the remnants of pop rocks against his tongue, sweet and tart all at once. He traced circles against her neck as they kissed, gentle and chaste, and she had responded by tangling her fingers through his hair to pull him closer, rucking up his shirt to rest her other hand on his waist.

He had pulled away first, breathing heavily against her cheek, eyes blown wide and lips slick with saliva, “See? Kissing is that simple.”

“Simple,” She had agreed, before spending the rest of the summer staring at his lips, wondering what they would feel like pressed against the juncture between her neck and her shoulder.

And she’s not sure what possesses her to say it- maybe it’s because he’s still smiling, a full blown grin this time, all teeth, or maybe it’s because they’ve been driving non-stop for five hours- but she goes, “I still do, you know.”

He rolls his shoulders back, sneaks a quick peek at her, “Still do what?”

“Like pop rocks.” She tears the seal off the packet, pops a handful into her mouth, closes her eyes at the familiar fizzing against her tongue.

“Good to know,” He says, voice rough, and she’s not sure if she’s imagining the way his eyes linger on her lips as she sweeps the stray crumbs off.

They lapse back into silence, and she can make out the faint notes of a beach boys song playing, the heater rattling as she rests her hands over them, balancing the half full coke can on her knee.

“I can’t believe you’re listening to the beach boys when it’s _winter._ ”

“I’m a rebel like that,” He smirks, “Like to keep everyone on their toes, do what’s unexpected.”

“Or you’re just an idiot,” She mutters, unfolding the map shoved in the cup holder. They’ve been to the lake house a countless number of times, but never by themselves. The Blakes stopped going to the lake house to spend their summers five years ago, when Aurora had died, and so Clarke did too. It wasn’t the same without them anyway.

“You should get some sleep,” He says, lowering the volume of the music, before adding, “I can turn it off if you want.”

“No it’s fine, keep it on.” She sinks back into her seat, chugging down the remains of her coke before setting down the empty can on the ground. “Wake me up when it’s my turn to take over.”

He grunts in response, pumping his foot on the gas before coming to a halt yet again at the red light. He swears under his breath.

“Get on to the highway, we’ll get there faster.”

“God, you’re bossy,” He grumbles, and he’s reaching towards her, his fingers dancing over her eyelids, closing them playfully. She exhales shakily onto his wrist, peers at him through her lashes.

“Go to sleep, princess.” Bellamy taps once on her left eyelid, then her right, fingers skimming down her cheekbone before returning to the wheel.

She closes her eyes, forces her breathing to even out, and starts counting sheep.

**HOUR (1)**

The last time she felt this uncomfortable around Bellamy, it was the first time they met.

He was ten- all limbs and sharp angles where Clarke was soft and round- she was eight. He had stuck out his hand for her to shake, all impish and boyish confidence, with his callused fingers and dirt smeared on his cheek.

She had only known Wells’s soft cadence, his gentle nature, how he had carefully sealed her broken crayon back with wax when she broke it, brushed her tears away with the edge of his thumb.

But Bellamy was different. Bellamy was loud, his voice authoritative and sure. She had seen him climbing the trees by the row of houses, surefooted and steady, plucking apples and chewing into them with vigour, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. She had seen him play tag with the other boys, rough and tumble, all scraped knees and hard shoves. The rest of the boys followed him around, hanging onto his every word.

No, Bellamy was different. He was scary, intimidating. She stared down at his hand, clutched at her father’s pants instead and tugged urgently. She wanted to go.

But they made her stay anyway, and while her parents sat on the porch with Aurora, drinking iced teas and talking, she skulked around the Blake's backyard, skipping stones across the small pond they had.

Bellamy found her in the end anyway, settled down next to her while she held her breath, scooted away to give him more space. He never said anything, just sat next to her quietly, his legs folded up to his chest.

They ate their popsicles in silence after, Bellamy dangling his legs into the water, Clarke doodling in the dirt with her ring finger. She’s drawing the wildflowers by the edge of the lake when he drops something on her skirt.

It’s a origami crane, made from the popsicle wrapper, all neatly folded edges, crisp and precise. She pulls at its beak, unwrapping it slowly, smoothing out the creases.

“Teach me,” She mumbled, and he had smiled at her, that stupid, crooked smile, and that was it. They were friends, and he never failed to make her feel at ease, safe and loved and protected.

The silence in the car weighs down on her, hot and oppressive despite the weather, and he keeps sneaking looks at her when he thinks she’s not paying attention. She digs her nails into the soft skin of her palm, forces herself to stay quiet. (She catches glimpses of him through the reflections on the window, warped and foreign, a stranger’s face)

He rolls the window down a crack, and she shivers as the wind slices across her face, ruffles her hair. Dark roads give way to a brightly lit tunnel, blinding her, forcing her to squint as the car inches forward.

She thinks she hears him say her name, voice raw, but it could have been the howling of the wind, the screech of the tires. She turns her face away entirely, stares out the window, until they finally emerge at the end of the tunnel, plunging them back into darkness again.

**HOUR (9)**

“Would you rather count the all freckles on your body, or your hair?”

“Freckles.” She eases the car gently onto the deserted highway, cranks up the dial of the heater, “I’m pretty sure I only have a small cluster of them on my elbow.”

“Lucky you,” Bellamy says dryly, polishing his glasses with the edge of his hoodie. “Okay, next one.”

“You’re bad at car games,” She says mildly, and he scowls at her, voice scratchy and low, “Well, you didn’t want to play I Spy.”

“There is literally nothing to look at, Bellamy. It’s four in the morning.”

“Trust me, I’m aware.” He snipes, leaning back into his seat, sniffling. His nose is red from the cold, glasses still perched on the thin bridge of his nose, and there’s a patch of stubble on his chin. She hates to admit it, but it’s a good look.

“What would you rather, murder somebody and get away with it, or be murdered by someone and have them get away scot-free?”

“Well, this is downright _cheerful_.”

He groans, thumping his head against the window pane loudly, “You know, I can’t help you stay awake if you’re not going to play properly.” He says, all accusatory.

“Fine, ask me again.”

“What would you rather, murder somebody and get away with it, or be murdered by someone and have them get away scot-free?”

“Murder somebody, probably,” Clarke says, switching on the windshield wipers, “I’d probably still get caught though. No one gets away with murder without some help.”

Bellamy laughs, and she can hear him faintly struggling to retrieve something from his coat pocket, the rustling of fabric and the clink of his zipper, “Do you honestly think none of us would help you, if you ended up in a situation like this?”

“I wouldn’t expect anyone to,” She says dryly, and she registers the click of his lighter, the cold gust of air against her face when he rolls down the window.

“I think you underestimate the lengths I will go to for you, Clarke.”

And she wonders how they got to where they are, from strangers, to friends, and something beyond that.

“We’re still discussing a completely hypothetical situation where I murder someone, right?” She says, biting down on her lip so he wouldn’t see her smile.

“What I’m saying is that I have your back,” He rasps, bringing the cigarette to his lips, the burning tip of the cigarette casting strange shadows on his face, “Can’t get rid of me that easily, Griffin.”

And.

And what she really wants to tell him is, _I tried. I wanted to._

But instead, all she says, in the midst of the cigarette smoke and the bitterly cold winter air, is, “Maybe you’re right.”

**HOUR (3)**

“If I have to listen to one more Taylor Swift song, I swear to God-”

“You’ll what- what will you do, huh? Kick me out of the car?”

“You motherf-”

“Don’t curse in my car, Clarke.”

“Stop playing Taylor Swift then.”

“Fuck you, hipster trash.”

**HOUR (13)**

She can’t feel her fingers.

The harsh glow of the traffic light burns against her eyelids when she blinks, and there’s grit in the corners of her eyes, sticking her lashes together. There’s a ache in her thighs, a stiffness of the lower half of her body that makes her feel as if she has aged significantly, all while strapped behind the driver’s seat.

The light’s still red.

Clarke huffs impatiently, chances a quick glance over at Bellamy. He’s sleeping, albeit fitfully, head lolling against the seat rest, and she catches quick snatches of things he says in his sleep, _don’t_ and _tired_ and _I’m alright._ (She wonders what he’s dreaming about, who he’s conducting these conversations with, maybe Octavia or Miller or Roma- no, she won’t go there.)

He’s peaceful in his sleep, gentle almost. Bellamy in his waking hours is intense and unrelenting, all fire and fight, bloodied teeth and bruised knuckles. She sees it whenever they fight, she sees it when he kisses someone else, all clashing teeth and swiping tongue.

It confuses her sometimes, how this Bellamy can exist with the other, the one who touches her softly, carefully, like she’s something precious. She sees it in the way he smiles, whenever he has his head bent over a book, fingers skimming the pages and dancing along the spines.

She sees it when he folds her paper cranes, the concern in his eyes when she scraped her knee. (“Let me _help_ you,” He had insisted, when she had tried to bandage it up by herself. He adds a please, and she lets him. He bandaged her leg with one hand, held hers with his other.)

It was jarring, the contrast between both. But it didn’t matter. She loved him anyway- she loved him between the sharp knife’s edge, between the precarious balance- and she would love him beyond it.

A horn blares, sudden and abrupt, and Clarke startles, foot slamming against the pedal. The car makes a awful jerk, tires screeching loudly as she scrambles for control. Another car cuts in her lane, tail lights blinding, and she fumbles for the steering wheel, veering to the left and finally, finally bringing them in the clear.

Her hands are shaking, glued to the steering wheel, and there’s sweat gathering on her upper lip, trickling down in rivulets between the cups of her bra. She exhales, shaky to her own ears, and wipes at her face.

“Clarke,” His voice is steady, calm, and she keeps her gaze firmly fixed on the roads ahead, (if she looks at him, she might cry, and god forbid that happen) “We need to stop.”

“There’s not enough time,” She bites out, tries to hear past her pulse pounding in her ears, “We need to keep going.”

 _“Clarke._ ”

“Fine!” She explodes, pulling up the side of the road before stomping out. He’s standing by the passenger side, waiting for her, as she strides towards him, steady, while she is wobbling on her feet, calm, while she feels like the universe has splintered.

She hates it, hates _him,_ so she releases the thought that was caught in her throat all this time, “Fuck you.”

“How long have you been holding back?” He deadpans.  

“A while,” She admits, and the tense knot pressing against her spine seems to lessen. Clarke sucks in a deep breath, can physically feel her entire body relaxing, “Sorry.” She murmurs, resting her head against his chest. He doesn’t hesitate, just wraps his arms around her and melts into her.

“Sleep deprivation is a real bitch,” Bellamy breathes, right against the shell of her ear, and she has to keep herself from appearing affected, from _wanting._

“I want a shower.”

He sniffs, quips, “You need a shower.”

She shoves against his chest while he laughs, holding her closer instead of shying away, lifting her slightly so the soles of her sneakers scrape against gravel.

“Put me down, idiot,” She says breathlessly, and he does, still grinning at her as he pats the car door, “Ready to go find a hotel, Columbus?”

“Motel,” She corrects him, sliding into the car, “And it better have a pool.”

“I don’t think we can afford to be picky,” He says as he starts up the car, “How about we settle for no roaches?”

“No roaches,” She agrees.

They find a motel twenty minutes after. No pool, some roaches, but with a breakfast buffet that Bellamy is irrationally excited for. (“Hashbrowns, Clarke. Fuck, I can smell them already.”)

One bed.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Bellamy offers, after they’ve dumped their bags in various corners of the room.

“It’s fine,” She says, queasy, and heads off to shower first.

The water is scalding hot, the soap bar harsh against her skin. Clarke scrubs at her skin, tries not to think of his warmth against her back or his breath on her neck. The last time they shared a bed, they had been children and she had wet the bed.

She held her breath in the morning, pretended to be asleep, but he didn’t say a word, just offered her a pair of his boxers after she got up. (He changed the sheets when she was in the shower, or maybe he got Aurora to do it, she never knew. He never told.)

They had been a pair of spiderman boxers, loose around her hips, and she had to constantly tug at them as they ate their breakfast, when they went out to play.

And it’s not like it can get any worse than that, so she’s feeling slightly more cheerful when she steps out of the shower. He’s half asleep on the bed when she steps out, his feet dangling off the edge of the bed, and she has to prod him especially hard before he wakes, bleary and confused, stumbling to the shower when she pushes him.

The sheets are starchy, and she spends about ten minutes beating them into submission, all while keeping an ear out for the running water. When she hears the squeak of the faucet being turned off, she shuts her eyes and evens out her breathing.

The bed dips under his weight, and she can feel him tugging on the sheets.

“Stop it,” She grouches, forgetting that she was pretending to be asleep, “You’re such a blanket hogger.”

“I have more body mass than you,” He retorts, voice hazy with sleep, “Use your head, princess. I need more of it than you do.”  

Clarke wiggles her exposed toes, bites back a growl of frustration, “My feet are cold.”

“Put on a pair of socks.”

She kicks at him, and he yelps before grabbing at her legs and pinning them down. Her foot connects to the side of his jaw, and he retaliates by rolling his entire body over her legs, chin coming to rest on her navel as she curses at him.

“Sucker,” He mutters against her flannel, and she flicks at his forehead. He scowls at her, but doesn’t move away, resting back onto the soft skin of her stomach, his face turned to the side.

She should tell him to move- he’s heavy, and as much as she likes his weight on top of hers, she rather keep her legs- but instead, she says, “Did you love Roma?”

She can feel him stiffen as he shifts to look up at her, expression incredulous, “What?”

“You heard me.” Clarke says stubbornly, trying valiantly to keep from blushing as he arches a single brow at her, “Fine. Don’t answer me then.”

She flops back down onto her pillow, arms folded across her chest. Bellamy hasn’t moved, still lying over her legs, breath ghosting against her sides.

“Not the way I was supposed to,” He says finally, and she wishes the statement doesn’t make her sag in relief.

“So you broke up with her?” She says, deliberately keeping her voice light. He won’t look at her.

“No, she broke up with me.” He smiles wryly, resumes picking at the bedspread and looking anywhere but at her, “She said I didn’t make her happy.”

And she doesn’t know what emboldens her- maybe it’s the darkness, fractured with cracks of light from the closed curtains, or maybe the way he looks at her through his lashes, with a kind of steadiness and security that only Bellamy could possess- but she reaches out and cards her fingers through his hair, rubs the spot behind his ear.

“Did she make you happy?”

He closes his eyes when her nails rake across his scalp lightly, making a contented noise as his hands come to rest against her thighs, “It doesn’t really matter.”

But yes, yes it does, and she wonders if anyone ever notices how much Bellamy _loves,_ how much he cares, how much he gives. He never did anything by halves. He was all consuming, all or nothing, a forest fire that would burn everything in it’s path just to keep you warm. He loved selflessly, and absolutely, like in the stories, of greek myths and fairytales. (She wonders if he remembers that most of their love stories had ended in tragedy.)

“It matters, Bell. It matters that you’re happy.” She trails her fingers down his neck, trembling, and everything is surreal in this moment, unreal, and maybe that’s why she has the courage to tell him, “I want to be the person that makes you happy.”

He scoots upwards to look at her, his elbows propped up by her sides, knees straddling her thighs. Close enough to kiss. He exhales roughly on her cheek, dips his chin to rest his face against her shoulder, “You already do, Clarke.”

His lips brush against her neck, and she reaches for his hand, laces their fingers together, “Was that why?” His voice is hoarse, and she’s reminded of the way he said her name in the car, hopeful and pained and vulnerable, “Was that why you-”

“Yeah,” She interrupts, tightening her grip on him, “I thought maybe it was time I moved on, you know? I thought you guys were _it._ I thought-”

Bellamy laughs against her neck, and she can feel the vibrations from his chest reverberate all the way down her spine, “We’re both idiots, aren’t we?”

“You’re one to talk,” She says reproachfully, pushing him back lightly so she can look at him, “If you had feelings for me, you should have said something.”

“You were dating Finn,” He protests, “Then Lexa and-” He runs a palm over his face, ruffling his hair, and she’s so incredibly fond of him in this moment, her stupid best friend, the person she’s in love with, “We just never seemed to get the timing right.” He says, quiet.

“Well then, finally.” She tells him, and he smiles up at her, pulling her close so she can lay her head against his chest. There’s a part of her that wants to grab his chin, pull him down so she can kiss him, but he’s tangles his fingers into her hair, palm sliding against her arms comfortably, and yeah, they have all the time in the world.

“Stop thinking so loud,” He grumbles.

She nudges him with her foot playfully, and he groans, rolling her over so he’s spooning her, arm draped possessively over her waist.

“Just go to sleep already.”

Clarke hums, lines up her arm so it’s pressed against his, skin against skin, before she closes her eyes.

**HOUR (11)**

“You don’t know how to change a tire?”

He glares up at her, wrench held loosely in his grip, “Stop sounding so smug,” Bellamy bites as she rolls out the spare from the trunk, still snorting.

“I thought you were all self-sufficient,” Clarke grunts, loosening the lug nuts with a well placed twist of the wrench, “Nothing fazes you, right?”

“Go fuck yourself, princess.”

“I would, but I get embarrassed when you watch.” She cranks the jack, swearing when it gives a loud creak, “Make yourself useful, and go stock up on food, won’t you?”

“Do you want mini brownies?”

“When have I ever said no to that?” She says, impatient, and he strides off, muttering under his breath about an _attitude adjustment_ and _what a grouch-_

Her phone rings just as she picks up the wrench, and normally she would just let the phone ring and call whoever it is later, but it’s Raven, and Raven doesn’t normally call unless it’s an emergency, so Clarke picks up.

“Where the hell are you?”

“In life or location wise?”

Raven sighs, exasperated, “You know what I mean, Clarke.”

“I’m on my way to the lake house,” She admits, pressing her phone against her shoulder so she can resume the oh so important task of changing the tire, “It’s a long story.”

“You’re on your way to the lake house, alone?”

“With Bellamy,” She mutters, bracing herself for the inevitable explosion.

“What happened to avoiding him until the foreseeable future?”

“He needed my help,” Clarke says, and she senses Raven’s apprehension even before she says a word, “Apparently, they broke up.”

“So you decided to help out _after_ you discovered that little tidbit?” She can hear Raven pottering around in the apartment in the background, the slam of cabinets, the familiar thunk of her setting down the kettle.

“It’s not like that. I’m not _expecting_ anything from him. Or from this trip. It’s just-” Bellamy’s paying for their food now, his back facing hers, his face reflected in the glass. His brows are bunched together as he sorts through the money in his wallet, hands clumsy and large, “The lake house is ours. It’s always been ours, you know?”

“What’s happening to the lake house?”

“They’re tearing it down, making room for condos.”

There’s a pause, then Raven says, “I’m sorry, Clarke. I know how much the house meant to you.”

“It’s not about the house,” She says, and he finally gets the correct amount of cash, folding the receipt crisply and shoving it into the pocket of his jeans, “It’s about the summers I spent there. The people I spent it with.”

“I bet Octavia didn’t take it well, did she?”

Clarke heaves the jack back into the trunk, slotting the wrench neatly back into the toolbox and sliding the phone into her palm, “You have no idea.”

“Well, good luck.” There’s the familiar whistle of the kettle, the sound of Raven’s laptop being booted up, and it’s Thursday, which means Raven is going to spend three hours binge watching trashy TV shows, this time sans Clarke, “Call me if you need me.”

Bellamy’s crossing the lot now, laden with bags, and she spies a familiar bag of pop rocks, shoved under the beef jerky and the cokes and the chips. She tries to hide her smile behind her hand, exhales against her gloved palm.

“I love you. Have fun tonight.”

“Won’t be as fun without you, but I’ll try. Stay safe, Griffin.”

“Was that Reyes?” Bellamy asks when he loads the stuff in the car, a little too casually, his gaze darting over to the phone in her hand.

“Who else could it be?” She says suspiciously, sliding into the car.

“I don’t know,” He shrugs, “You could have met someone.” Then, as she starts up the car, shifting the gears, he adds, “We haven’t talked in a while, that’s all.”

“I’ve been busy,” She says automatically, and he falls silent, the easy mood from before dissipating.

She should say something- apologise, or bait him into a fight, something, anything- but instead she turns on the radio, and keeps driving.

**HOUR (20)**

They oversleep, missing their checkout time, so they don’t get a shower or even the opportunity to change out of their clothes. The combined effect of the radiator and Bellamy’s body heat has ensured that Clarke woke up with her hair plastered against her neck, sweat beading against her forehead. Her hair feels greasy and limp and her clothes feel like they’ve grafted onto her skin.

It’s not a good start to her day.

He’s happy though- despite the fact that he smells- something she tells him when they’re thundering down the stairs, his arm looped over her shoulders, her face buried somewhere in the region of his armpit.

Bellamy doesn’t even get mad, just smirks and tickles her side while she swats him off, “You like me anyway,” He said, handing her a plate, and well. It’s true, so.

“I would kill a man for a shower,” She mutters as she spears a handful of mushrooms on her plate.

“Hmm?” He hums noncommittally, clearly distracted as he cranes his head towards the buffet line, “Babe, there are the _hashbrowns_. Fuck. There’s a line.”

She hustles him into the queue, stealing chunks of his eggs off his plate while he bounces on his toes. (How does one get so excited over carbs?)

“You called me babe,” Clarke says, elbowing him in the ribs when he tip toes for the fifth time to see if the line is moving, “That’s new.”

“Oh,” He says, face flooding with colour instantly, “Shit. Sorry, it just slipped out. You hate it?”

“I kinda like it,” She admits and for a minute the hashbrowns are forgotten, and he’s grinning widely at her while she smiles stupidly back, because last night _happened_ and they love each other and it all feels like a dream.

Then the line moves forward, and he snaps his attention back to breakfast. She doesn’t even stop him when he empties out half the tray, shooting the people the back of the line a smirk when he saunters off. (God, he can be such a dick at times.)

She grabs a table by the window while he gets their coffees, texting Raven cryptic messages about the entire Bellamy fiasco. Raven responds by sending her a picture of her disgruntled face and her burnt toast.

“You should worry about diabetes,” Bellamy tells her when he sets down their mugs, “Three sugars.”

“I’m not going to drink my coffee black, like an old man.”

“Hey, cultured people drink black coffee.”

“Says who?”

He sticks his tongue out at her, slides over a full plate of crepes and an assortment of sausages. She blinks, pokes at a sausage, “What’s this for?”

“You like crepes,” He says gruffly, shovelling forkfuls of hashbrown into his mouth, “You ate five whole crepes when we went for that field trip to the park.”

That was six years ago. Her face feels stupidly hot.

“You remembered.” She states, kicking his foot lightly.

“Just eat your crepes, Clarke.”

But she catches him smiling as he sips his coffee after, and yeah, she could definitely get used to this.

**HOUR (28)**

They’re just two hours away when it starts to sink in.

There’s the familiar sign, rusted and hinging towards the left. The cornfield they always pass, the house with the ivy all over the gates. Everything is exactly as it is, except that it isn’t.

Before, there would always be ducks, a whole horde of them lazing by the pond as they zipped by in the car. Sometimes they took off, flying right past the car, obscuring the view and forcing them to stop until they cleared off. You could always smell barbeque, despite the fact that you were still two hours away. Someone was always setting off fireworks, and Clarke would see empty bottles of sunscreen abandoned by the road.

The loud popping of the fireworks used to scare Octavia, and Aurora would sit in the back with her while Clarke perched on Abby’s lap in the front. Bellamy would then cup his hands over her ears, murmuring words of reassurance as tears welled up in her eyes.

Bellamy takes her hand, lifts it up gently so he can press his lips against her knuckles, “What are you thinking about?”

Everything is white, blanketed in a coat of snow, frost forming on the edges of the window. She taps on the glass absentmindedly, squeezes his hand when they pass the familiar row of trees, dead and bare.

“It feels like we’re going to a funeral.” She tells him.

He smiles grimly at her, “Aren’t we?”

**HOUR (25)**

There’s a coat of grime stuck under her fingernails.

“We’re pulling over at the next gas station we see,” She says authoritatively, running her fingers through her greasy hair, “I need to clean up.”

Bellamy casts a quick glance at her, “You look fine to me.”

“I feel filthy.” She says, immediately regretting her choice of words when he shoots her a loaded look. “Don’t say it.” She threatens, smacking a palm over his mouth.

“Gerroff me,” He says, words muffled, and she laughs, pulling her palm away so she can wipe his spit off on her jeans.

“Ugh, cooties.”

“Please, you want my cooties.” He smirks, turning the corner sharply when she yelps at him to make a left.

Three pumps, a bored looking attendant, and one dilapidated bathroom stall located at the back. Clarke convinces the reluctant attendant to hand over the key while Bellamy pays for gas, and five minutes later, they’ve convened by the bathroom door.

“Don’t take too long,” He says, leaning against the wall and rubbing his fingers together, “It’s freezing out here.”

“You don’t need to clean up, or pee?”

“I’ll go after you.”

“You’re being stupid,” She says, tugging him in with her and locking the door behind them, “It’s not like we can’t do it together.”

He swallows, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and she finds herself distracted by the thin trail of saliva he leaves behind, the heaving of his chest when he inhales sharply, “Okay.”

He peels off his shirt first while she shucks her jeans, and she doesn’t want to outwardly _ogle_ him or anything so she peeks at the mirror instead. He has freckles scattered down the expanse of his back, shoulder blades prominent as he hunches over to undo his belt. His back is corded with muscle, jeans hanging low on his hips when he casts his belt aside.

The last time she had seen him topless, he had been lanky and slight, front teeth crooked and overlapping. She reminds herself not to gape, peeling off her top and running a paper towel under the water. She sneaks another glance at the mirror, only to realise that he’s looking at her too.

The way he looks at her makes her flush, his gaze slow and heated, lingering on the curve of her waist and the tiny bow on her bra. She glances over at the sharp vee of his hipbones, the dark line of his briefs contrasting against his skin.

“Clarke,” He says warningly, “If you keep looking at me like that, I swear to god I’m going over there to kiss you senseless.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, forces herself to remain nonchalant, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He crosses the room in three strides, his hands gripping her hips as she surges up to kiss him. There’s nothing chaste about the kiss this time- all clashing teeth and nails against skin- as he backs her up against the door. His fingers ghosts against the clasp of her bra, and she lets her head fall back when he mouths at the top of her breasts.

“Shit, you okay?” He says, pulling away, burying his fingers in her hair and rubbing at her skull gently. “I’m fine,” She gasps, hitching her leg over his hip until he slides his hands under her thighs, holding her up.

He gives a particularly loud moan when she digs her fingernails into the skin of his back, and she kisses him again to shut him up, laughing against his mouth when he struggles to unbutton her jeans.

“Stop laughing at me,” He says through pants, biting at her neck until she’s clutching at his shoulders, “I can’t believe you find this funny.” There’s fondness in his voice though, adoration, and she retaliates by nipping his bottom lip.

They pull away when they hear half-hearted knocking at the door, a timid, “Are you guys done yet? Because technically, I’m not allowed to give out the bathroom key.”

Bellamy groans, presses his head against her shoulder as she resists the urge to burst into peals of laughter, “We’ll be out in a bit!” She yells. He lets her down gently but doesn’t move away, still a hair’s breadth away from her. She grins at him, links her fingers through his belt loops so she can pull him down for a long, filthy kiss.

“We’ll finish up later,” She promises him.

“No rush,” He murmurs, smoothing down her hair.

They take turns washing their hair under the sink, cleaning off each other’s backs and torsos with wet paper towels. He’s good at it, even throwing in a mini scalp massage while she works his tangled hair through her fingers.

“You need a haircut,” She says when they’re fully dressed and back in the car, ruffling his wet hair as he ducks away from her.

His lips quirk up in a familiar smile, her favourite one, “It’s a date, Griffin.”

**HOUR (30)**

Octavia’s sitting by the porch when they arrive, eyes red rimmed, knees against chest.

“Don’t look at me like that,” She snaps, when Bellamy reaches for her, “I just came to say goodbye.” Her eyes slide over to the bulldozers parked by the side, the congregated group of workers casting them dark looks.

“O,” He says, gentle, chiding, “We have to go now.”

She sighs, defeated, slumping into Clarke’s embrace, “I’m going to miss this place.” She whispers, sniffing against her neck.

She runs her hand down Octavia’s spine, rubs soothing circles against her arms. The house is falling apart from years of disuse, floorboards scuffed and windows fogged. Aurora used to measure how tall Bellamy got by carving a line against the door frame, right until the year she died. She counts the perpendicular marks against the peeling white wood, steps purposefully on the creaky step when they descend. Octavia gives a choked laugh at the screeching noise.

They enter the car, Octavia in the backseat, Bellamy in the driver’s seat, Clarke next to him. Everything exactly the same, but also different. She looks over at him, clutching the gear shift in his white knuckled grip, and she runs her a thumb over his wrist, reminds him that she’s here.

He turns up the volume of the radio, pulls out of the driveway, manoeuvring the car smoothly so all she can see ahead is the highway in the distance, glittering under the weak winter sun.

Clarke hears the faint crash of the splintering wood, the mechanical whir of a bulldozer in the distance as they drive further and further away. Octavia slumps down in her seat, eyes glued to her phone, and Bellamy increases the volume of the radio.

“So, where are we heading to now, Griggs?” His smile is sad, small. She reaches out, pins the other side of his mouth upwards too, widens it.

“Let’s go home, Blake.” She tells him, and this time when he revs the engine, she’s ready.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on [ tumblr ](http://okteivia-blakes.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined!


End file.
